


stranger like me

by nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:30:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare/pseuds/nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare
Summary: Sort of a Tarzan spin on Nezushi - Shion travels to Alaska on a research expedition and discovers a human who was raised within one of the wolf packs he came to study.Preview:“Shion.”“Hmm, what?” Shion asks, still pacing, but he glances at Safu, who is looking past him.“Did this wild man of yours, by any chance, receive an injury on his left arm?”Shion stares. “Yeah, he did. How did you – ?”Safu points, and Shion wheels around to see the man standing on the edge of the clearing where he and Safu set up their small camp two days before.He is on all fours as he stood when Shion first saw him, but his left arm is bent slightly, clearly taking less of his weight as a line of red tears down the pale of his skin and sinks into the snow.His chest heaves, his shoulders are taut, and his stance is wide. The standard pose of a wolf on its guard, but there is the undeniable fact that the figure whose grey eyes are unwavering on Shion’s is not a wolf.He is a man.Shion stares for a second, then lowers his eyes deliberately.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote and posted this fic in March, 2015, and I'll be reposting it one chapter every day (even though clearly it's already completed). 
> 
> I'm reposting some of my old fics from the many accounts I previously deleted over the past few years, so if you're familiar with my fics and want to request that I repost a certain old fave, feel free to message me at my tumblr: http://coolasamackerel.tumblr.com or comment on this post: http://coolasamackerel.tumblr.com/post/160488980276/danielles-nezushifree-fics and I'll be happy to consider reposting it! For both my new readers and my old guys, hope you enjoy the fic!! :D

Nezumi slows his pace instinctively, pretends he is doubling back only to help one of the pups over a log. He treads carefully behind his siblings, circling the back of his pack because his stride should not be so long, should not be so easy.

            At the head of the pack, the moon illuminates the coat of his mother, a brilliant silver that seems to drink the shine from the sky and dish it back out to gloss over the pelts of every other member of the family.

            Every other member but Nezumi, of course, but he does not think of this – or rather, is distracted from thinking of this when his mother whines softly, and his father stops immediately, the rest of the pack freezing in place as well, a family of eight with the movements of one.

            Nezumi dips his nose into the fur of a pup to quiet it, but all the same keeps an eye on his mother, who is communicating with his father in a language they seem to share only with themselves despite the open communication of the pack.

            Nezumi rolls his shoulders under his removable pelt, digs at the snow absentmindedly. He is not surprised when his father indicates that they will be stopping here instead of heading all the way back to camp for the night.

            It is not a bad place to rest, with surrounding trees making a fine enough enclosure, but Nezumi knows the real reason for their unplanned stop. He waits for the rest of the pack to settle before disentangling two playing pups from his limbs and approaching his mother.

            “Nezumi,” comes a low growl, and Nezumi inclines his head to his father, keeping his eyes to the snow and his haunches down.

            He is not scared of the alpha. But he knows his place, and though he does not fall into such a place as easily as the other members of his family seem to, he does not fight it.

            Well, not often, and not tonight.

            The next growl is short and warning, but not enough that Nezumi turns around, and he waits another minute before looking up, taking note that his father has left to sit a few feet away.

            He will be watching Nezumi, but Nezumi knows of this watch, knows that it is constant, that nothing he can do in this family will shake the steady blue eyes from his every move.

            Nezumi looks away, instead at his mother, whom he curls beside, nudging her shoulder with his in greeting and receiving a soft lick to the leg.

            “Do not worry about me, Nezumi,” she says softly, too quietly for the alpha to hear from his watch feet away, and Nezumi glances at his mother.

            He knows he is not supposed to look her in the eye, but rules do not apply with Nezumi’s mother. Their bond is more than the average bond in the pack, and Nezumi suspects this might be another factor against him when it comes to his father.

            “I’m not,” Nezumi replies, a soft exhale of gentle syllables, and he falls closer into her body as her warm pelt ruffles against his side.

            “Then why are you huddled so close? I don’t need your warmth. I’m fine,” his mother says – stubborn as always, and Nezumi glances away from her in affirmation of what he knows is a lie.

            His mother is not fine. She is old, and she is dying. And while she is older than Nezumi, even Nezumi’s siblings seem to be aging while he only seems to be getting stronger.

            He cannot offer his strength to his mother, but he can offer his warmth.

            “It’s entirely selfish. I’m cold, taking your warmth,” Nezumi replies, shifting even closer, pressing his nose into his mother’s fur, and she only laughs gently back, allowing his lie to pose as truth for the time being.

            Nezumi rests his chin on his hairless paws, settles into the snow and his mother, closes his eyes. His stomach growls, and of course his mother will hear, but he is grateful she makes no comment.

            There was enough elk for every member of the pack, of course, but Nezumi slipped his share to his mother when she was not paying attention – she needs it more than he does, anyway.

            In the darkness of his closed eyelids, Nezumi focuses on matching his breaths to his mother’s, his inhales to her inhales, his exhales to her exhales.

            As a pup, this is how she would assure him that they were not so different after all – in spite of what his father commented loudly and the other members of the pack agreed with when they thought Nezumi was asleep.

            But his mother always insisted – _The moonlight may not shine off your pelt, but it is caught just the same in your eyes. We are no more different than we are the same, don’t you see, Nezumi?_

            She would exhale against his skin, and her breath felt the same as his – warm, full of life, something constant.

            It was enough because it had to be. It was enough because it was all Nezumi had, all he could remember, and when sleep brought the strange visions of others like him, he would always forget them on waking beside the only family he knew.

*

Nezumi is woken by a growl. He is immediately on all fours, blinking the sleep from his eyes and glancing at his mother, whom he realizes is the source of the growling.

            “Nezumi, get back,” she barks, quick interruptions to the threat she is offering the trees ahead of her, and Nezumi blinks at them, noting that it is not the trees she is growling at, but a bear, its coat white as the snow it stands on.

            Nezumi does not step back.

            “Back, Nezumi!” This bark is harsher, colder, and Nezumi does not need to turn to know it is his father, eyes furrowed and lips drawn over sharp teeth that will be no match for the bear’s claws if he is alone.

            “You need me,” Nezumi replies, and it is not acceptable for him to say such a thing to his alpha, but this is not a time for Nezumi to care about being acceptable.

            His pack is in danger. He may not look like he belongs, but they are his and he will fight for them.

            “I will not repeat myself,” his father snaps, but Nezumi only steps forward, comes shoulder-to-shoulder with his father while leaving his mother a step behind.

            He glances back at her, nods his head to the rest of the pack, which has retreated to keep the pups out of way of the bear, but her shoulders are square and she does not move.

            Her growl deepens, but Nezumi finds it offset by her fear.

            His attention is forced back to the bear when it makes a loud guttural noise, slumps forward onto its front paws and lunges. His father and mother leap out of the way, but Nezumi only sidesteps enough to grab a fallen tree branch, which he lifts with his front paws as he rises on his two back legs, thrusting himself towards the bear.

            The larger animal stumbles back only by surprise, but it is stronger, and Nezumi finds himself reeling back, the air knocked from his lungs in an exhale that is too large and too sharp as his back hits the hardened snow.

            Nezumi blinks up at the muzzle of the animal that pins him now with the tree branch he still has tight within his grasp, and growls right back.

            The bear reels up, and Nezumi pushes his shoulders, attempts to lift the damn thing off him, but he cannot. Even so, he will not give up until the dirty teeth of the bear are around his neck, but instead of lunging back down, the bear’s growl turns into a whine, and the weight is lifted from Nezumi’s body.

            He scrambles off the ground in time to see his mother leaping off the side of the bear, running back when the bear stands back up and swipes at her.

            Nezumi is next to lunge, having caught his breath, and he smashes the end of his branch against the bear’s face, satisfied when its towering figure stumbles back.

            It is enough that its neck is exposed, and Nezumi is about to jump on it, but his father beats him, leaps at the bear’s neck and bites down.

            The blood is brilliant against the white fur, splattering and melting the snow, and the bear’s roar echoes against the trunks of the trees.

            And then it steps back. The wolf pack watches warily, but this is lucky – a bear that won’t insist on a fight to the death. Despite its wound, Nezumi knows enough to realize the bear’s retreat is the only thing that could ensure the entire pack’s survival.

            He turns to his mother, who has not relaxed her shoulders nor looked away from where the bear has disappeared into the trees. As he glances at her, she turns to him.

            She offers a nod, but before Nezumi can relax, he is thrown on his back again.

            “The next time I tell you to get back, you will listen,” growls Nezumi’s father, but Nezumi does not even wince as he feels claws against his shoulders.

            “It wouldn’t have turned away without me,” Nezumi growls back, and his father’s lips bare his fangs again, showcasing the stains of blood that still drip.

            “Leave him!” comes a bark from Nezumi’s side, but Nezumi does not look away from the alpha male, wishing his mother would stay out of it.

            “He needs to learn his place.”

            “Beneath you?” Nezumi snarls, not hiding his scoff, and the claws dig deeper into his skin.

            “Yes,” his father growls, and Nezumi inhales deeply before reeling up and tackling the alpha wolf, using the stick he still holds to pin his father on his back.

            He may not have claws, but Nezumi will not let himself fall behind in the pack.

            “Nezumi, don’t,” his mother barks, and it should be an order, but it is a plea.

            Nezumi could dominate his father. He could take his place as alpha, and he should – he is stronger, he is faster, he is better. He was not meant to follow orders. He was not meant to fall into place.

            Nezumi exhales, narrows his eyes at his father, who glares back at him. Neither look away while Nezumi steadily presses the branch further down against his father’s chest – but then the bear is roaring again, and Nezumi leaps off his father, ready to resume the fight.

            The bear is not in sight. Another roar, and Nezumi realizes the sound was not in his ears as it felt a second before, but far off.

            He steps forward, receives a growl in response.

            “Leave it.”

            It’s his father, and Nezumi turns back.

            “It will come back for us. For the pack.”

            “No, it won’t. It’s found new prey. I am commanding you to leave it. We will go back to camp now,” his father says, standing now, shoulders back and head high as though he was not just pinned to the snow.

            There’s a scream, then, something odd – something familiar.

            “What was that?” Nezumi’s mother asks.

            “Doesn’t matter. Not one of ours. Let’s go. Now.”

            Nezumi cannot move. The scream was not natural. Nothing like the howl of a wolf, the roar of a bear – no sound from any animal he knows.

            And yet it is familiar, has his heart beating frantically, has his skin wetting with sweat.

            “Nezumi,” his mother nudges, a cool snout against his shoulder, and Nezumi turns, glances at her, searches her face for a sign that she, too, has felt some recognition from the scream – but there is nothing but concern. “Come, Nezumi,” she says, just as another scream shakes Nezumi, makes him flinch.

            He steps away from the pack.

            “If you leave, you are deserting us. You will stay and defend this pack,” his father barks, but Nezumi hardly hears him, is already running in the direction of the roar – in the direction of the scream.

*

Nezumi slows when he is closer to the source of the scream, but he sees no animal but the bear, whose back takes up most of his vision.

            Nezumi advances quietly, still holding his tree branch, sidestepping the pools of blood that must come from the wound his father inflicted on the bear. He can hear odd noises coming from the other side of the bear, and assumes this is the other animal.

            Strangely, the noises do not seem threatening. They are pleading, if anything, in a quick and collected manner that Nezumi does not understand.

            A bear is not rational. A bear will not give in to pleas.

            The bizarre cadence of noises rise in volume as the bear advances towards them, and Nezumi takes the opportunity to jump up onto the bear’s back. It roars as Nezumi hooks his branch around its neck, pulls back as hard as he can.

            It lashes out, and Nezumi’s arm sears as its claws hook on his flesh and tear a wound into it, but if anything, Nezumi only tightens his grip on the branch, pulls it against the bear’s windpipe with even more force.

            The bear is staggering and roaring, but to Nezumi it seems as though the roars are becoming more and more breathless until suddenly, the bear is falling back, and Nezumi is falling with it, the wind shoved from his lungs for a second time in twenty minutes as the bear lands flat on top of him.

            He manages to keep his hold of the stick, waits until there is breath in his lungs and a minute after that, and only then releases his hold, his hands searing, his arm stinging, his eyes watering.

            He crawls out from under the bear that is now just a carcass – food, even, and he debates how he can manage to lug the animal back to camp when a noise reminds him of what caused him to act so recklessly in the first place.

            The noise is smooth and flowing, and Nezumi looks up expecting to see a forest species he has never laid eyes on before.

            Instead, what he sees is so familiar the breath Nezumi only just managed to acquire into his lungs seems to fall right out in a gasp from his lips.

*

The animal takes a step forward, and Nezumi takes a step back.

            He does not bare his teeth, he does not growl, but he does not lower his gaze either.

            Nezumi will not be the one to look away, even though something about this animal hurts to look at, a strange pain that is nothing like the sharp pulses coming from the wound in his arm. This pain is something internal, a squeezing of some organs, an unraveling of others. Nezumi does not understand it.

            He inhales, he exhales.

            The animal makes another sound, quiet, this time, syllables that stumble into Nezumi’s ears in a haphazard way, and he has a feeling he could right them if he wanted, put them back in order if he tried, but he doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t try.

            There is something awful about this animal. The familiarity of it. The way it has no fur but for the top of its head, just like Nezumi.

            The way its snout is too small, just like Nezumi’s.

            The way its paws elongate, just like Nezumi’s.

            Nezumi takes comfort in the eyes. They are not grey, like his. They do not catch the moonlight, but instead catch the glisten of blood, appear like splattered droplets of a heartbeat in the snow.

            More sounds, but Nezumi’s heartbeat is too loud – it is a relief that it is too loud, because the sounds might have seemed so familiar then, the rhythm of them might have been something he has heard before, the flow of them might have been something he remembers from a time he did not know existed until that moment.

            The animal stands only on its back paws, but does not seem off balance. Now, it holds up its front paws before its chest, and Nezumi’s exhale catches in his throat.

            He looks down at his own front paws, in the blood-stained snow. He lifts one, turns it over, stares at it – the hairlessness, the paleness, the smoothness, the lines that dash around it.

            He finishes his exhale, and only then does Nezumi look back up, at the paws of the animal in front of him, the animal he has never seen before, the animal that is strange and unfamiliar and bizarre – and there is no difference, in the two paws that are held up.

            The pain in Nezumi’s chest explodes into something crippling, and the nightmares are back, but he is awake, and there is no forgetting them this time – he remembers every detail, he remembers every scream, he remembers every face.

            Nezumi turns from the animal before it can speak to him again – in a language he suddenly remembers as well – and runs.

**

“…and then the bear was falling backwards, its windpipe probably crushed, and Safu, I swear, it was a man that crawled out from under it, a wild wolf man,” Shion finishes, out of breath, pacing, having been unable to sit down since he returned to camp, waking Safu and slowly managing to combine coherent sentences to relay events he still cannot believe he witnessed.

            Safu peers up at him from behind the steam of her tea.

            “Perhaps you were injured in your encounter with the polar bear,” she says, finally, and Shion all but collapses in the snow in front of her.

            “I’m not crazy! Safu, you’ve got to believe me. I would be injured, I’d probably be dead, but the boy, the man, the – Well, he saved my life,” Shion breathes, kneeling in front of Safu in the snow, but he is not cold despite having refused the mug of tea she offered.

            He is hot, energized, pulse still racing.

            Safu watches him carefully, then nods. “If you believe it so strongly, I will too.”

            Shion manages a small smile. “It is possible, isn’t it?”

            “For a man to kill an adult polar bear?”

            “The bear had already been injured! And no, I mean, for a man to live out here.”

            “To live in Alaska, yes, of course. To live in these parts of Alaska for a large period of time without resources of the assembly that we have brought simply for a three-week expedition? The thought is quite unlikely. What was this man wearing?” Safu asks, and Shion glances at her snow pants and jacket, her gloves and snow boots.

            “Just a long, loose shirt. It was a grey fabric that came to his knees, and the sleeves had been ripped. Other than that, he wore nothing. But Safu, I think he’s been here for – Well, for a really long time. His hair was down past his shoulders, and he just, he didn’t seem – He was more animal than man. His movements were incredibly graceful, but powerful. I’ve been studying the gray wolf my entire life, it’s why we came out here, and this man’s gestures were identical to those of a wolf. The way he walked on all fours, the roll of his shoulder blades – ”

            “A gray wolf would never take on a polar bear, especially when its pack was not in danger,” Safu points out, and Shion shakes his head because he knows this, has been thinking of this.

            “I know! That’s what doesn’t make sense. But everything else suggests that he was raised by wolves, I’m sure of it. You don’t understand, Safu, you didn’t see him. He was incredible. And the way he looked at me, when I spoke to him – Or, tried to speak to him. I still am not sure whether he understood me. Of course, if he was truly raised here, there is no way he could know Japanese, but at the same time he really seemed to have an emotional response to what I was saying.”

            Safu brushes the back of a glove over her nose. “Do you really believe this man was raised by wolves?”

            “It’s entirely plausible! Their pack mentality harbors extremely strong bonds with members of their family. I’m sure if he was taken in by the alpha, even the fact that he is of a different species would not cause them to cast him aside,” Shion insists, back on his feet, pacing again, picturing the man in his head, matching up his movements to the graceful gestures of a wolf – it is insane, but maybe it’s not impossible.

            “A human is not equipped to survive in a wolf pack in Alaska,” Safu is saying, and Shion knows the logic is against him – he’s been studying wolves for years, after all, received the grant money to make this three-week trip to Alaska and gather research on the social bonds of the gray wolf after submitting a proposal to the Japanese Environmental Board – but there is no escaping what he saw.

            “The way he looked at me, Safu – His eyes, they were incredible. Completely silver, I’ve never seen anything like them, and I can’t be sure if he knew what I was saying to him, but I am certain there was recognition. He looked at me as if he could see deeper inside me than even I knew existed. Such intensity – But also, sadness, I think, and fear, if that’s possible – ”

            “Would you like a moment of privacy to contemplate the wide array of emotions you managed to gather from a simple look from this wild man?” Safu asks, gesturing to the tent, and Shion shakes his head, but he cannot shake the image of the man’s gaze.

            There was something _knowing_ in them. A sudden understanding so immense, Shion is desperate for it himself.

            “Shion.”

            “Hmm, what?” Shion asks, still pacing, but he glances at Safu, who is looking past him.

            “Did this wild man of yours, by any chance, receive an injury on his left arm?”

            Shion stares. “Yeah, he did. How did you – ?”

            Safu points, and Shion wheels around to see the man standing on the edge of the clearing where he and Safu set up their small camp two days before.

            He is on all fours as he stood when Shion first saw him, but his left arm is bent slightly, clearly taking less of his weight as a line of red tears down the pale of his skin and sinks into the snow.

            His chest heaves, his shoulders are taut, and his stance is wide. The standard pose of a wolf on its guard, but there is the undeniable fact that the figure whose grey eyes are unwavering on Shion’s is _not_ a wolf.

            He is a man.

            Shion stares for a second, then lowers his eyes deliberately.

            “Safu, would you mind getting in the tent? I think he will feel less threatened if there is only one of us,” he asks, speaking slowly and softly, and he does not receive a reply, but hears a shuffling behind him before the metallic sound of the tent being zipped up.

            Shion breathes deeply, pulling his chin to his chest and dropping his shoulders, knowing the signs of a submissive wolf and almost wishing he had a tail to tuck between his legs, to prove to this man that he is no threat, will cause no harm.

            He listens for the sounds of the man either advancing or retreating, but is not surprised to hear neither – the man’s movements would be graceful, soundless, even with a wound.

            Shion swallows, allows the man another minute of silence, then speaks as gently as he can. “I don’t know if you understand me. But if you do, I only want to help you. You are injured, and I have medical supplies. I can clean and dress your wound.”

            Shion takes a few more breaths, then carefully peeks up. He nearly flinches, but manages to retain his composure on noting that the man is now standing a foot away from him.

            Standing, of course, on all fours as opposed to upright, but he is no less menacing because of it, and Shion cannot help but stare at his beauty.

            “Do you know what I’m saying?” he asks, but the man makes no comment, and Shion realizes that in this way, the man is retaining the upper hand.

            Shion accepts this. Acknowledges that the man is incredibly intelligent, when it comes to survival.

            “Will you let me help you?” Shion asks, then points at his own arm as he looks at the man’s wound. 

            The man says nothing, but after another half minute, he sits back in the same way a wolf would – back legs bent and arms straight out to the ground.

            Shion breathes out a sigh of relief and smiles before remembering that this may be misconstrued as baring his teeth menacingly, but the man does not seem alarmed, and only stares at Shion’s smile and cocks his head.

            “I will get my supplies and come back,” Shion says, trying to keep his words from coming out in a rush, and he points from the tent back to where he stands, hoping the man will understand, or at least stay still for a minute.

            The man gives no response, so Shion quickly turns and runs to the tent. The moment he unzips it, the medical supplies kit is pressed into his hand.

            “Be careful,” Safu says, and Shion nods, realizing she was listening and taking the kit gratefully before she rezips the tent.

            When he turns, the man is still seated and watching him just as intensely.

            It’s almost difficult, for Shion not to trip as he walks slowly back over to him and sits himself beside the man – leaving a deliberate foot of distance between them.

            He sets the kit onto the snow and opens it, feeling the man’s eyes on him as if they have weight, a tangible presence on his skin.

            “These are medical supplies,” Shion says, even though the man may easily have no idea what he is saying. Still, it interrupts the back-and-forth of their inhales and exhales, which was distracting, somewhat, though Shion cannot place why. “First, I will use this clean cloth dabbed in hydrogen peroxide to clean your wound so I can assess how bad it is. It will sting, but I am not hurting you,” Shion says, looking up at the man at the last part.

            He is caught in the linger of the man’s gaze. It is almost sticky, and roams carefully all over Shion’s features without shame, resting for long moments on his hair and scar and lips and nose, then falling heavily on his eyes, between which it skitters back and forth.

            Shion forces himself to look down again with great effort. His heart is beating wildly, and though he knows of the acute hearing of a wolf, he cannot attest to the hearing of this man who seems so much like the species Shion has studied.

            He opens the bottle of peroxide, presses the cloth against the top and wets it, then holds it up.

            “Ready?” he asks, and the man looks at the cloth for a moment before leaning closer and – _sniffing?_

            Of course. Shion is ashamed of his own surprise. If he’s to believe his own hypothesis of the man’s upbringing, such a gesture should have been predicted.

            The man makes a noise at the back of his throat and leans back, and Shion attempts to reassure him.

            “I know, and it will sting as well, but it’s necessary,” he says, and though the man continues to angle his chin away, he does not move otherwise, so Shion lifts his free hand and wraps it around the back of the man’s arm to keep it in place.

            The man turns to watch now, as Shion raises the cloth and presses it gently to the wound. He responds in a quick jerk of his arm that would be imperceptible had Shion not been holding onto him, as well as a sharp exhale of air through his nose, but otherwise, he makes no gesture of objection, and Shion nods at him.

            “Very good. I’m sorry that it hurts. I really do not want to hurt you. I only came here to study, well, to study the gray wolf,” Shion says, wiping down the rest of the arm where the blood dripped down, and he peeks up at the man, who stares back.

            Shion soaks a clean part of the cloth in more peroxide before wiping the wound again.

            “I am here with my friend and colleague, Safu. I study social bonds in different species, but most specifically the wolf. _Canis Lupus._ Safu studies psychoanalysis and partnered with me to diagnose the social behaviors and possible meanings behind those behaviors between wolves. We are interested in how they have created families.”

            The man flinches now, more noticeably, and Shion stops, glances at him.

            “Are you all right?” he asks, softly, but the man again says nothing, simply stares at Shion.

             The man’s breathing is quick now, inhales and exhales skating across his lips.

            Shion is not expecting a reply, and prepares to inform the man he will need stiches when the latter finally speaks.

            “If my family is called wolves, what are you called?” he asks, and the voice is lower than Shion expected, and even though it is in Shion’s language, it still does not seem entirely human. His words come slowly and carefully, as if each is being picked from an organized collection and distributed with precise care.

            Shion freezes. The man has been able to understand him, and Shion wants to shout with happiness, but such a response would clearly scare him.

            He has questions, of course – _How do you know Japanese? Who taught you? Were you really raised by wolves? How long have you been here? Why are you here?_

            But his questions cannot come now, and Shion knows this.

            He takes another breath before replying, attempting to keep his same even tone. “The technical term is _homo sapiens._ Human beings. Humans. People. There are many names for the species that I am a part of.”

            _That_ we _are a part of_ , Shion thinks, but he is unsure if he should say this, unsure what the man understands, how much he knows, what he believes.

            The man says nothing. He looks at Shion for another moment, then turns his head back to his arm, which Shion also glances at.

            “It is deep. You need stitches. I can give them to you, along with anesthesia – so you won’t feel pain. Otherwise, an open wound like this can get an infection,” Shion explains, not knowing what is too much information and what is not enough.

            The man makes no response, so Shion administers the anesthesia, stiches the wound in a silence that is only interrupted during his last stitch.

            “Doctor,” the man says, so quietly Shion is not sure the comment was intended to be heard, but he glances up anyway.

            The word is proof that this man must know some human culture, and again, Shion is forced to stifle his questions in exchange for a response that will not cause the man to retreat.  

            “I studied many medical courses. I’m not a doctor, though, I’m only seventeen, after all,” he says. He quickly assesses the man, attempts to gauge his age, realizes that maybe he is not a man, but just a boy – or at least, around his own age.

            He thinks about the lifespan of a wolf, how it is only up to eight years in the wild.

            “Do you have a name?” Shion asks, a few minutes later as he wraps a bandage around the man’s arm.

            He tapes it down and sits back, waits to see if the man will answer him or not, and wonders if the man is contemplating the same thing as he watches Shion with his steady, calculating grey gaze.

            “Nezumi,” the man says, after a minute, and Shion cannot help but question it.

            “Nezumi?” he asks, but he quickly collects himself. “I’m Shion, if you don’t remember from earlier, when you saved me. And I wanted to thank you for that. For saving my life. Thank you, Nezumi,” he says, hoping Nezumi will understand how much gratitude he really feels, but he receives no acknowledgment at all.

            Instead, Nezumi is back on his feet and hands, and then he is turning and running from the camp, leaving Shion bewildered and with nothing but a few drops of blood on the snow and countless questions on the tip of his tongue.

**

Nezumi shivers into himself, curling his legs closer to his body.

            He watches his sleeping camp, contemplates curling beside the pups just for a few hours, waking early and leaving before anyone is up to notice him, but it is a bold claim to think he could sneak into and out of camp without his father noticing.

            Even so, despite the warning his father gave, it is not the alpha male that has kept Nezumi from returning to his camp for a week. He would not accept banishment so easily, nor has he let go of the desire to challenge the pack leader, to overtake him.

            No, it is Nezumi’s mother that keeps him outside camp and looking in, longing for the warmth of the living bodies he used to sleep beside.

            He has been confused before. He is not an idiot, can see clearly the differences between himself and the rest of the pack, has always seen them.

            But there was never the thought that there were others like him. He did not look like his pack, but he belonged with them – now, Nezumi is unsure. That his mother knows of the others like him and never told him is the greatest betrayal – and Nezumi is sure she knows, is absolutely certain of it. It was never her secret to keep, and when Nezumi had questions and she offered answers, he realizes now they were all lies.

            He grits his teeth, closes his eyes, cannot stop remembering the memories he did not know he had.

            Of his real mother. Of his real pack, his true family.

            He exhales, attempts to release his memories along with his breath, but the attempt is futile, and he opens his eyes to see the air from his lungs has turned white in the cool air.

            The memories recall a day that is hot, too hot, getting hotter, burning, but Nezumi still feels cold. He gets up, tries to shake the unwanted images from his head and thinks maybe a quick run will do the trick – or at least, will warm him.

            He runs until his body has warmed, then stops by a stream and laps water, breathing out to ensure it does not go up his nose. His pulse is in his ears, and it is for that reason he does not hear the boy approaching until the voice beside him.

            “Nezumi.”

            Nezumi leaps back, coughing at the water he inhaled, and shakes his head, glaring up at Shion, who watches him with wide eyes.

            “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry,” Shion says, in the language Nezumi remembers in screams, in shouts, in pleas.

            He closes his eyes. He also remembers this language breathless with laughter, soft with love, bright with happiness.

            When Nezumi opens his eyes again, Shion is crouching at the stream himself, no longer looking at Nezumi, who warily approaches him again.

            “You know,” Shion says, to the stream, “if you cup your hands like this, you can fill your palms with water and drink more easily. See?”

            Nezumi watches Shion cup his hands, dip them into the stream, pull out a small pool of water that he raises to his lips and sips from.

            Nezumi swallows at the same time Shion does. He is unnerved by the way Shion looks at him, nothing like the way any member of his pack has ever looked at him, nothing like the way he was looked at in the memories he is now forced to suffer.

            Nezumi turns away. It is Shion’s fault he has these memories again. It is Shion’s fault he knows he lost a family, has to feel the pain of losing a pack.

            “Or you could use an actual cup. Like a human,” Shion continues, and Nezumi turns back to stare at him.

            “I do not want to be a human,” Nezumi says, having to think back to the words of a language he used to know so naturally. He wishes the syllables felt odd jumbling over his teeth and out of his lips, but instead they flow easily, the sounds seamless if a little slow.

            “Why not?” Shion asks, after a moment, and Nezumi watches his lips move, thinking this is what his own lips must look like.

            Nezumi does not need to think about it. He stares at Shion’s eyes, is startled by the influx of human words he had long forgotten – _red, wide, honest, curious, fascinated._

            “Humans are weak,” Nezumi replies, and it is an answer as well as a warning.

            _You are weak. I am not like you._

            Shion’s lips open, but he says nothing, and then he is looking at Nezumi’s arm. “I was looking for you because I forgot to tell you to come back so I could take out your stitches.”

            Nezumi narrows his eyes. He cannot help but find it rather selfish that this Shion wants his stitches back after only just a week, and thinks he should have just kept them in the first place rather than act like this.

            “I won’t give them back,” he argues, pulling his arm closer to his body, and Shion blinks before laughing.

            The sound of it startles Nezumi, and he watches Shion warily.

            “After I gave you stitches, your body was able to grow new cells and patch itself back together. You don’t need the stitches anymore. People always have to have their stitches taken out a week or so after they receive them, depending on the severity of the injury,” Shion says, smiling, and Nezumi isn’t sure why he smiles so often, but he relaxes his arm again.

            He does not know if he can trust this Shion, but his arm does feel a lot better.

            “Come back with me to my camp, and I’ll take them out. I promise, it’s all procedure,” Shion says, and Nezumi is unfamiliar with the word _procedure,_ but he finds himself following Shion anyway.

            He stays a few paces behind Shion and watches the way Shion walks.

            It is the way Nezumi used to walk, before the fire.

            It is the way Nezumi used to walk, when other humans surrounded him.

            “Safu is out collecting firewood,” Shion explains, when they walk into the clearing of his camp, and Nezumi settles down beside the tent, waits for Shion to collect his medical kit before speaking.

            “You are not a normal human,” he says, and Shion raises an eyebrow.

            “Neither are you,” he says, and Nezumi bristles.

            _I am not a human,_ he thinks, but he does not say it because he knows it is wrong – it is all he knows, but it is wrong.

            “Sorry,” Shion says quickly, holding up a hand as he sits beside Nezumi, crossing his legs over each other in a way Nezumi examines. “I guess you’re referring to my hair and eyes and scar,” he says, pointing to each as he says it.

            Nezumi is silent as he waits for an explanation, watching Shion rummage in his medical kit.

            “It was my fault,” he says easily, glancing up at Nezumi. “I was always curious, and mixed too many of the wrong chemicals. Turns out I got a formula wrong, and I ended up in the hospital and woke up a week later with my hair white and my eyes red and this scar wrapped around me.”

            Shion smiles sheepishly at Nezumi, who looks back but does not reply. He does not know the words _chemicals_ or _formula_ , never learned them when he had humans around him, and he has no desire to ask Shion what they mean now.

            Instead, he glances away, notices a picture frame balancing on a stack of books beside the tent and peers into it while Shion picks at his wound.

            “Oh, that’s my mother,” Shion says, and Nezumi glances at him to see he, too, is looking at the picture.

            Her eyes are not red, and her hair is not white, but she still resembles her son, and Nezumi thinks that is how it is supposed to be.

            He looks away from Shion, tries to focus on what Shion is doing to his arm, the sharp pains that tug.

            “Nezumi, can I ask you something?”

            Nezumi looks back at Shion. As painful as it is, there is something gratifying in seeing someone like him.

            But then, Nezumi knows that Shion is nothing like him. In looks, maybe, but really Nezumi is just as alone as he was before, as this boy knows nothing of the life Nezumi has lived, nothing of the thoughts Nezumi has.

            Even so, this Shion is fascinating.

            “I wanted to know,” Shion starts, but then he blinks and looks away, back at Nezumi’s arm. “Does your wound hurt? Would you like pain medications?” he asks quietly.

            Nezumi tilts his head, looks even closer at the boy. He wonders what Shion really wanted to ask, finds himself relieved at receiving these harmless questions instead.

            “It does not hurt,” Nezumi lies, because it does sting, but Nezumi has no need for human medications.

            No one in his family has ever needed medicine. It is only a small scratch, and Nezumi has sustained worse anyway.

            Shion nods at Nezumi’s arms, pulls his hands away after rebandaging it.

            “Stay for dinner,” he says, glancing back up at Nezumi, and Nezumi is startled at the request, shies away, stands up and leaves quickly because he cannot do such a thing, he cannot eat with this strange human because he is not supposed to eat with strangers, he is supposed to eat with his pack, with his family, and Shion is anything but that.

**


	2. Chapter 2

Shion watches Nezumi from several feet away.

            There is a wolf camp a mile away, and Shion wonders why Nezumi isn’t with them, as he is sure this must be Nezumi’s pack.

            He wonders if Nezumi’s distance has anything to do with himself, but he quickly shakes the thought away, thinking that is too self-absorbed, his effect on Nezumi is surely not enough to take him away from his pack.

            After all, Nezumi does not seem nearly as interested in Shion as Shion is in him. He cannot help but take time out of the day when he should be watching the wolves to track Nezumi and observe him silently, both wishing and dreading the thought of Nezumi noticing his presence.

            Today, Nezumi sleeps in a ball beside a tree. He shivers, and Shion wishes he had brought him a blanket, though he knows on some level that Nezumi would not accept it.

            Shion settles into a seated position, does not mind simply watching Nezumi as he sleeps. The day passes quickly in this way, with Shion running through his usual questions about Nezumi in his head and coming up with possible answers that seem more and more unlikely until Nezumi wakes, pulling his limbs closer to his body before stretching out and sitting up, cocking his head as if listening.

            Shion holds his breath. Watches Nezumi blink and stand up on all fours, stretch out his legs and arms and shake out his long hair.

            He stands still for several moments, then looks over in the direction of his camp. Shion is too far to see his expression, and wonders whether it is longing or something entirely different.

            He knows that Nezumi cannot last long away from his pack. They were sources of warmth and food that Nezumi cannot get on his own, as a human in the wild.

            But Nezumi does not make any move to return to them, and instead he is looking at the tree beside him, shaking his head at the ground, then exhaling loudly and making a sound that resembles growling.

            Shion watches in fascination as Nezumi paces for a minute, then reaches one hand high on the tree trunk beside him and pulls himself up onto his legs. He stands for a second, chest rising and falling visibly, then lifts a leg and takes a step forward.

            When he falls, Shion has to cover his mouth with his palm. It might not have been so funny if Nezumi was not so naturally elegant; the absurdity of being so clumsy on two feet is simply too much.

            Nezumi shakes himself off on the ground, growls again, then pushes himself up, first onto four limbs, then again onto just his legs, this time without the help of the tree beside him.

            He stretches his arms out to his side, presumably for balance, takes another breath, and Shion holds his own as Nezumi takes another step forward, his movements awkward and clunky and too deliberate.

            Still, he does not fall, and then he is stepping again with his other foot, and he continues this exaggerated walk for another minute before letting his arms fall back to his sides and taking a more natural stride, pushing his hair from his face as he walks on two feet around the tree one, two, three times.

            He stops walking and stares down at his feet, takes another step just as Shion sneezes, and then Nezumi’s falling as Shion slams his body down on the snow so Nezumi won’t see him.

            The effort is useless. Shion knows Nezumi will simply come over to investigate, and it’s not like Shion can outrun him, so he gets up, figuring he’d rather not be found lying on the ground, and walks over to Nezumi, who is back on all fours, eyes narrowed at him.

            “You were watching me,” Nezumi says, and even though he is clearly angry, Shion cannot help but feel thrilled that Nezumi speaking to him without Shion having asked him a question first.

            “I can teach you things. Human things. If you want to learn. It doesn’t have to mean anything. There’s nothing wrong with learning new things.” _It won’t make you weak._

            Shion has been contemplating Nezumi’s comment since he made it three days before. _Humans are weak_.

            When he spoke to Safu about it, trying to get a psychoanalytic perspective on the mystery of Nezumi, she concluded that his human family must have died, resulting in him being raised by wolves – which adds up, but Shion doesn’t want to believe it.

            Still, it would explain Nezumi’s guarded attitude.

            He expects Nezumi to refuse, but instead, Nezumi watches him carefully with his remarkable silver gaze.

            “Do you have books?” he asks, finally, and Shion can’t help but smile, continuously amazed by Nezumi.

            “Yes. I can teach you to read, if you’d like,” Shion says, and Nezumi says nothing, so Shion starts walking to his camp, hoping Nezumi is following but too frightened to look behind him.

            At his tent, he finally turns, and Nezumi is there, sitting patiently.

            “Okay, what do you want to read? I have a bunch of reference books – Most about wolves, actually, I don’t know if that appeals to you. I have some novels, and I think Safu brought some books, most of hers are academic, but she has a Shakespearean play in here too.”

            “Shakespearean?” Nezumi asks, and Shion glances at him over his shoulder, as he has been digging around in his tent.

            “He was a famous playwright. He wrote tragedies and comedies and dramas. His stuff is a little difficult, I’m not sure whether it’s the best for someone just learning – ”

            “I know how to read,” Nezumi says.

            “You do?” Shion asks, ducking back out of the tent to stare at Nezumi, who says nothing – of course. Shion blinks and attempts to compose himself. “Have you read Shakespeare?”

            “No.”

            “Would you like to?” Shion asks, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

            Nezumi squints at him, then looks away. “It’s probably too difficult for me,” he says, airily, and Shion can’t help but smile.

            Nezumi is joking with him. Sure, it’s sarcasm, but a joke is a joke, and Shion can’t help but feel elated at this development in their relationship.

            “I can help you with the big words,” Shion says, fishing out _King Lear_ and offering it to Nezumi, who sets it on the snow and traces his fingers over the cover.

            “How kind of you,” he murmurs, and Shion sits close beside him, close enough for Nezumi to glance up at him and lean back, eyes narrowed.

            “And you should rest the book on your legs, so the snow doesn’t damage it. It might help to sit like this,” Shion offers, hoping he’s not being too pushy, but to his surprise, Nezumi glances at Shion’s legs, then carefully rearranges his own so that he too is sitting cross-legged.

            He picks up the book and places it on his ankles, then opens it silently and peers down at it, his hair falling in front of his face.

            “Hold on,” Shion instructs, getting up quickly and rummaging in the tent, and when he returns, he holds out a hair-tie. “It’s Safu’s, she still carries them around everywhere even though she cut her hair a few months ago. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you borrowed one.”

            Nezumi holds out his fingers, and Shion notes how long they are as he loops his forefinger through the hair-tie and holds it up in front of his eyes.

            “Oh, it’s to tie up your hair. In a ponytail. You know, like this – ” Shion reaches up his hands to his own hair and pulls it back, though it’s too short to stay in his fists and falls back over his eyes.

            Nezumi stares at Shion’s hair for another half minute, then puts the tie over his wrist and gathers his hair over his right shoulder.

            Shion is about to object, but then he notices that Nezumi’s long fingers are moving in and out of the dark strands, and he watches in fascination as Nezumi braids his unruly hair, fingers slipping occasionally, but still accomplishing the task in minutes.

            As he uses Safu’s hair-tie to tie the end of his braid, Shion can’t help himself. “Where did you learn to do that?” he asks, not realizing how close he’s leaning into Nezumi until Nezumi glances at him, and his grey eyes are inches away.

            “I used to braid my sister’s hair,” he says, simply, and then he’s turning back to _King Lear_ as if he had not said anything strange and opening the book.

            Shion wants to press it. _You had a sister? What happened to her? Does she also live with wolves, or is she…?_ But instead, he leans over Nezumi’s shoulder when he points at the page.

            “It’s pronounced Gloucester,” he says gently, noting the word Nezumi points to. “It’s a name.”

            “Gloucester,” Nezumi repeats, softly, and then he begins to read, as slowly and carefully as a child, but Shion doesn’t mind, nor does he mind aiding Nezumi with the larger words, and occasionally pausing to explain the meanings of ones Nezumi does not know.

            It’s clear that Nezumi has not read anything in years, but even clearer is his fascination with the text, and they pass the day like this, reading until it becomes too dark and Shion has to rummage in his tent for their oil lamp.

            When he returns, he finds Nezumi gone, as well as _King Lear._

*

“Hey, Nezumi, do you know how to dance?” Safu asks, looking up from her notebook and smiling at Nezumi in what may appear to be an innocent way, but Shion knows better.

            Nezumi glances at her, up from the book on wolves he borrowed from Shion, who sits beside him, kindling the fire he just showed Nezumi how to make.

            “He doesn’t want to learn that,” Shion says, warningly, completely aware of what his friend is up to, as just the night before when Nezumi left the camp after his fourth consecutive day of visiting, she wouldn’t stop observing the physical reactions of Shion near Nezumi that were apparently _very revealing._

            “Dance,” Nezumi says, tucking the hair that has escaped his ponytail behind his ears.

            “It is the human custom of physically embodying passion,” Safu says, and Shion covers his face in his hands, hoping Nezumi does not understand what his friend is saying.

            “Passion,” Nezumi repeats, and Shion peeks between his fingers to see Nezumi staring at him.

            “It just means, you know, friendly – er – friendliness,” Shion blabbers, dropping his hands, and he swears Nezumi smirks at him, but just for a second before his seriousness is back, leaving Shion wondering if he just imagined the turn up of his lips.

            “Teach me to dance,” he says suddenly, voice demanding, and Safu giggles from her seat by the tent, though when Shion glances at her, her face in buried in her notebook, and she is scribbling furiously.

            “Ah, I don’t know if I’m the best – Safu might be better – ”

            “Teach me to dance, Shion,” Nezumi says again, leaning forward, and in his voice is a clear challenge that has Shion’s heart stopping and starting back in a disconcerting rhythm.

            He doesn’t even want to know what shade his skin has turned, certain that even so, Safu will not hesitate to share the exact hue of red with him later.

            He stumbles up and nods shakily. “Yeah, okay. If you want,” he mumbles, and then Nezumi is standing too, much too close, but Shion doesn’t step back, and instead feels Nezumi’s exhales on his face.

            He raises an arm and decides he should probably lead, but before he can put his arm around Nezumi’s waist, Nezumi’s arm is around his waist, pulling him even closer.

            “Like this?” Nezumi asks, and this time the smirk is by no means imaginary.

            Shion blinks and breathes slowly. “Um, well, yes, but I was thinking I should lead – ” Shion murmurs, though at the same time, Nezumi is grabbing his hand and intertwining their fingers, which is slightly distracting.

            “What now?” Nezumi asks, and Shion cannot help but wonder if Nezumi truly does not know how to dance.

            He places his free hand on Nezumi’s shoulder, then lifts his foot. “When I take a step forward, you take a step back,” he murmurs, looking down at their feet, but acutely aware that Nezumi is still staring at him.

            They take several steps, clumsy at first, but then Nezumi starts humming, and even though it’s a song Shion has never heard, they fall into rhythm because of it, and soon Shion feels himself relaxing and stepping more easily.

            “You’re pretty good, for a beginner,” Shion says, after another few minutes, and he glances up to see Nezumi smiling slightly.

            He does not reply, but keeps humming, and Shion easily thinks he could dance forever in this way, and cannot help but wonder if this thought confirms Safu’s theories on his emotional responses to this Nezumi.

**

It has been two weeks since Nezumi left his pack, and he walks in slowly, as just his mother and the pups are present, with the rest of the pack on a hunting trip with his father.

            His mother should be on the trip as well, but is too weak to hunt, a fact Nezumi observes in concern just outside the camp for several minutes before approaching her.

            The pups reveal his presence, hurtling themselves at them, and he rolls around with them for a minute until they quiet down and he is able to shake them off, only then looking up at his mother.

            He sits several feet away from her and bows his head, remembering too late that he has left the braid in his hair – messier than usual, today, as he let Shion braid it.

            Nezumi waits for the growl. He deserted his pack when he was needed most – an alpha is weak, and he had no right to leave his family like this – he knows this, even through his anger at his mother’s betrayal, he knew this.

            Instead, soft fur presses against his side, and Nezumi glances up to see his mother beside him, pressing her face into his shoulder.

            “I thought you had left us, Nezumi,” she whimpers, and he inhales deeply, a breath that shudders in his chest as it arrives into his lungs.

            He tries to speak, but forgets the words he carefully rehearsed in his head – instead, on his tongue is Japanese, and he is ashamed of himself, keeps quiet.

            “You didn’t leave because of your father,” his mother says, after licking his face, and Nezumi peeks up at her, watches her examine his braid without comment.

            “Why didn’t you tell me about them?” he asks, finally, and he didn’t want to mention it, but he cannot help himself, his anger is back swiftly and suddenly.

            His mother says nothing back, merely looks at Nezumi, leans closer to sniff his braid before leaning back.

            “There are others like me. You should have told me. I deserved to know. You let me think I belonged here!” Nezumi barks, voice rising, and he cannot help it despite the way his mother withers in front of him.

            She is weak, and it is not supposed to be like that. He has already lost a mother.

            “You do belong here,” his mother replies, softly. “You are a part of this pack.”

            “I shouldn’t be. I’m not supposed to be. You know that, you’ve known that, you never told me,” Nezumi snaps, getting up now, pacing around his mother, but even that is not right. “You are not even my mother. I had a mother. Someone like me,” he says, stopping now, looking straight at the alpha wolf in front of him who does not resemble an alpha, who just looks tired.

            She is silent for a long moment, then finally speaks, meeting his gaze. “I do not care what you say or what you think. You will always be my son,” she says, and Nezumi digs his fingers into the snow, then stands, the way he is supposed to, the way humans do.

            “I cannot stay here,” he says, but he does not know how he will leave.

            He is confused, and he has always gone to his mother with his confusion, but now he realizes there are answers she does not have, answers only other humans have.

            His mother stands, takes a step forward, and Nezumi watches her with narrowed eyes until she leans forward, presses her forehead into his legs.

            “We are no more different than we are the same,” she breathes, and Nezumi feels his anger exhale with his breath, finds himself crouching down, pressing his forehead into his mother’s, breathing in the familiar scent of her fur.

            He wraps his fingers into the softness of her neck, cannot explain the way his chest constricts.

            “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispers, into her pelt, and she only licks his neck in response, but it is enough.

            They have always understood each other, Nezumi and his mother, despite their differences, or maybe, because of them.

**


	3. Chapter 3

“Nezumi?” Shion murmurs, sitting up slowly and blinking at the grey eyes that shine despite the darkness of the tent. “What is it?”

            “Come with me,” Nezumi says, urgently, and Shion is immediately alert at the panic in his voice.

            He sits up, crawls out of the tent, hesitates on thinking he should leave Safu a note, but Nezumi’s hand is around his wrist, pulling him with nails digging into his skin.

            “Hurry,” he says, so Shion does, slips his feet in his boots and attempts to keep up with Nezumi, who lets go of his wrist only to slip his hand in Shion’s, squeezing his palm as he pulls him out of his camp.

            “Nezumi, what is it?” Shion asks, and at the same time notices that Nezumi must have taken his medical supplies kit, as it is currently grasped in Nezumi’s other hand.

            “My mother,” Nezumi says, after a moment, and Shion nearly trips over his own feet, but Nezumi tightens his fingers around his hand, pulls him up.

            They continue running until Shion is out of breath, feels a stitch in his side, and then Nezumi stops suddenly, shoves the medical supplies kit into Shion’s stomach, and drops to all fours.

            “Stay behind me,” he says, not looking back, and Shion does as he is told, walking carefully behind Nezumi as they approach the wolf camp.

            A wolf lies on her side in the center of the camp, and a larger wolf stands beside her, nose in her pelt, making low sounds into her fur, but he looks up as Nezumi and Shion walk closer.

            Shion wonders if he should get on all fours, but opts against it, mostly because he is frozen in a combination of both fear and amazement when the larger wolf – clearly the male alpha – turns to look at him.

            His look, though piercing, is brief, and the wolf stares next at Nezumi, who should bow his head, as Shion knows from his research, but he doesn’t.

            Instead, Nezumi makes a series of barks, nodding his head once at Shion and stepping closer, but the alpha is quickly between Nezumi and the wolf on the ground.

            “Nezumi…” Shion murmurs, concerned at the way the alpha is growling at Nezumi with its teeth bared, but Nezumi does not seem concerned, and growls back.

            The alpha swipes at Nezumi, who ducks out of the way, and Shion steps back, alarmed, concerned for Nezumi, unsure if it is his own presence that is causing this fight.

            Before he can attempt to intervene, however, the wolf on the ground is sitting up, nudging the male alpha to the side with what seems like incredible effort, and stepping towards Nezumi.

            She barks softly at the male alpha, who stares at her for a long moment, then turns and walks away even though she appears to be calling him back.

            Even so, he stalks out of the camp, and only then does she fall back to the ground, slumping again on her side.

            Nezumi does not even seem to have noticed the alpha has left camp, and is by the female wolf’s side, pressing his face into hers.

            “Nezumi, is this your – ”

            Nezumi glances up at Shion. “My mother is sick. You are a doctor. Take care of her,” he says, voice hard, and Shion falters.

            “Nezumi, I told you, I’m not a doctor – ”

            “Save her. You saved me,” he says, and Shion swallows, wants to take a step back, but instead crouches beside the wolf, who is whimpering softly now.

            Shion watches the way Nezumi looks back at her, his features visibly softening into raw concern.

            Shion knows he is probably making a mistake, but reaches out to touch the muzzle of the wolf, who stops whimpering to open her eyes wide and growl.

            He is about to pull back, but then Nezumi is speaking softly to her in a language Shion has no hope of understanding, and she stops growling, looks at Shion curiously now with tired eyes.

            “What did you say to her?” Shion whispers, but Nezumi does not even look at him.

            “You may touch her now,” he says, and Shion breathes deeply before stroking the fur of her snout, carefully, attempting to gain her trust.

            “She’s beautiful,” he says, and he glances at Nezumi to see him nodding.

            Shion gets to work then, carefully placing his hands around her body, feeling the way her bones have weakened, her fur has thinned. She is old, and Shion can easily guess the reason for her state – it is not so easy to tell Nezumi, however, and he takes his time to fully examine her, putting off the truth.

            “You can fix her, right?” Nezumi asks, after several minutes, and Shion sits back, takes his hands from her fur.

            “Nezumi. I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t say that,” Nezumi snaps. “You haven’t even tried anything yet.”

            “There would be no point,” Shion says sadly, but Nezumi only narrows his eyes, reaches around Shion to grab the medical kit, opens it, and throws a few of the contents in Shion’s lap.

            “Humans are smart, right? So save her.”

            Shion stares at the supplies on his lap, shakes his head at them, looks back at Nezumi. “She’s not sick. She’s – I’m sorry, Nezumi. The average lifespan for a wolf in the wild is five to eight years. Your mother is at the high end of eight years old, from what I can tell,” he says, softly.

            Nezumi leans back. “Average lifespan,” he says, slowly.

            “Yes,” Shion nods. “She has lived a full life, for a wolf.”

            Nezumi is quiet for a moment, glances at the wolf beside him, who breathes heavily.

            “And humans?” Nezumi asks, looking back up at Shion, and Shion swallows.

            “The average lifespan of a human being is around seventy to eighty years, though it varies based on gender and other demographics,” he says, quietly, but Nezumi is shaking his head even before Shion stops speaking.

            “That’s not true.”

            “I’m sorry, Nezumi,” Shion repeats.

            “Humans are weaker. I have seen them die,” Nezumi retorts, angry again, hands in fists.

            Shion just shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to say.

            “You can save her,” Nezumi repeats, after a moment, and Shion just looks at him.

            “Nezumi – ”

            “Shion, I told my mother you could save her. I promised her,” he says, leaning closer to Shion, whispering now, grey eyes hard, and Shion does not think he has ever seen Nezumi look more human than at this moment despite the fact that he has never seen the man look more like an animal, either.

            “It’s her time,” Shion says back, as softly as he can. “I think she knows that. I think she accepts it – ”

            “Well, I don’t,” Nezumi snaps, and he is again rummaging through the medical supply kit, pulling random items out, sniffing them, reading labels, tossing them back.

            His mother whimpers from the ground, but Nezumi only growls at her, and then Shion feels her snout – cold, but dry – against his leg, and he glances at her.

            “I’m sorry,” he says, knowing she cannot understand his words, but hoping there is some part of her that understands his meaning.

            She whimpers back, a stream of tired syllables, and Nezumi freezes beside Shion, stares at his mother, then stares at Shion.

            “What? What did she say?” Shion asks, blinking at Nezumi, whose eyes are wide.

            “Nothing,” Nezumi replies, finally, shaking his head and looking away from Shion, back at the medical supplies. “She says you should leave,” he mumbles, and Shion knows this is a lie but does as he is told, gets up slowly and walks out of the camp without looking back.

            He passes the alpha male on the outside of the camp as he leaves, but the wolf only stares at him as he passes, and Shion can see, despite the threatening stance and authoritative manner, that this wolf is just as worried as Nezumi, is just as devastated.

*

Even if there hadn’t been long and mournful howls filling up the sky throughout the night, Shion doubts he would have been able to sleep. It is a chorus of many, and despite trying, Shion cannot make out which sound is coming from a human among the wolves.

            And although Shion knows each wolf’s howl is unique, like the fingerprints of humans, tonight, each howl sounds the same – heartbroken.

*

Shion has repacked three times, and is just realizing his socks aren’t folded quite right when Safu grabs his wrist.

            “Drop the socks, Shion.”

            Shion does as he is told, looks at his friend, who sits in front of him and watches him sternly.

            “What?” he asks, turning fully to face her.

            “Will you just go and find him?” Safu says, her tone exasperated even though Shion hasn’t mentioned Nezumi once all day.

            Shion shakes his head. “And do what?” he asks, helplessly.

            Safu doesn’t even stop to think about it. “Tell him you love him.”

            “I can’t do that!” Shion objects.

            “Why not?”

            “Because it doesn’t make sense. I hardly know him. I _don’t_ know him – Anything about him, really,” Shion says, sadly. “It’s very possible that I am just fascinated by him.”

            Safu, however, shakes her head. “No. I am fascinated by Nezumi. I also find his physiognomy to be incredibly stunning and visually pleasing. However, I do not think of Nezumi on first waking. I do not think of Nezumi as I fall asleep. I do not spend every moment of every day watching the outer rim of our camp, hoping Nezumi will visit today. I do not take excursions into the wild and offer you ridiculous excuses when I’m obviously just going to sit behind a pile of snow and watch Nezumi sleep.”

            “I don’t watch him sleep!” Shion objects, even though, technically, this has happened in the past, but when Safu says it, it sounds creepy.

            Safu, however, does not appear to be listening to Shion’s objections. “I do not know much about the subject of love, Shion. But I know you, and very well at that. You are incredibly dedicated to your research, but have hardly remembered for this entire expedition why it is you are out here. You are meant to be studying the social bonds in wolf packs, but instead you have become distracted with Nezumi, and you are not the kind of person that is easily distracted. I do not think it matters how long you have known him, or how well you know him. I study psychoanalysis, and I have to say, I am very good at observations. I know what I am seeing, Shion, and it is that you are most content when in the presence of this man. You have fallen for him, and fallen hard, as the expression would have it,” Safu concludes, and Shion peers at her weakly.

            “I told you not to psychoanalyze me,” he says, after a moment, and she smiles back.

            “And I told you it was a reflex, and as a compromise I would never inform you of the information I gained. Now seems a suitable exception, however.”

            Shion winces. “What am I supposed to do? He’s not going to want to come back to Japan with me.”

            “Why not?”

            “I let his mom die, for one,” Shion points out, and Safu waves her hand.

            “He’s not stupid, he knows there is nothing you could have done, even if he does not want to acknowledge it at the moment. Assigning blame is a natural reaction to grieving,” Safu replies.

            “Safu, I have no idea how he feels about me. I can’t assume he will want to travel across the world and leave his pack to be with me.”

            “You can ask if he wants to.”

            “No, I can’t!” Shion cries, and really, just the thought of it is mortifying, but then he has a realization. “Wait – Have you been psychoanalyzing him? What does he think of me?”

            Safu just shakes her head. “My expertise is humans, and in terms of Nezumi, he is a unique case where his gestures and reactions are a combination of human and wolf, added to the fact that he has a naturally guarded disposition, which makes it hard to garner any reliable information without extremely close study. You may be in more of a position to determine his attitude, what with your study of wolves.”

            “Wolves show affection by biting each other’s muzzles. I don’t think my study of wolves is really relevant in this case,” Shion replies.

            “Then you’ll just have to ask him,” Safu says, matter-of-factly.

            “I think your underestimating the difficulty of the situation,” Shion points out, and Safu reaches out, gives his wrist a squeeze.

            “Don’t worry, Shion, you’re a catch. I’m sure he’ll be very flattered, even if he does not return your affections,” she says, as if this is supposed to make Shion feel any more confident – which, truth be told, it does not.

            Even so, ten minutes later finds Shion stumbling around in the woods, looking for Nezumi. The old wolf camp has been deserted, and Shion is not surprised.

            He continues his aimless trek, but finds Nezumi more quickly than he’d anticipated, sitting against the same tree he leaned against when practicing walking upright.

            He is reading, and as Shion walks closer, he notes that it is _King Lear._

            “Nezumi,” Shion says, to announce his presence, even though he is certain Nezumi knows he is there despite giving no indication.

            Nezumi looks up slowly, closes the book on his lap, and Shion notes that he is sitting cross-legged.

            “Hi. How are you?” Shion asks, the words stilted on his lips, and he makes himself walk closer, sits cross-legged in front of Nezumi, who leans back against the trunk.   

            Nezumi tucks his hair behind his ears, doesn’t speak.

            Shion nods despite Nezumi’s lack of response. “I came to find you. I’m leaving – Me and Safu, we’re scheduled to leave tomorrow. To go back to Japan. Remember, I showed you on the map?”

            “Are you here to collect your book?” Nezumi asks, though he makes no move to hand back the book on his lap.

            “No,” Shion says quietly, and he takes the time to slowly memorize Nezumi’s features – not that he thinks he’ll ever be able to forget them.

            “What do you want, Shion?” Nezumi asks, after a minute of silence during which Shion forgot talking was even a necessary ingredient of conversation.

            Shion looks at Nezumi’s hands that grip _King Lear,_ the long fingers that touched his skin while they danced.

            He looks back up. “I can’t stay here. I have to return to Japan. I’m doing research there, my mother is there, I can’t stay here,” Shion repeats.

            “I didn’t ask you to say here,” Nezumi replies, completely emotionless, but Shion takes a breath anyway, shifts so that he is on his knees and leans forward anyway.

            “I do not want to go back to a life without you in it. I do not want to spend days without you in them. I don’t know how you feel, but this is how feel. I know I’m asking you to leave your family. I know I’m asking you to leave your life. But I can’t go without asking.”

            Nezumi licks his lips, watches Shion carefully, and Shion attempts to breathe as he waits for Nezumi’s reply.

            When he does speak, it is not what Shion expected at all.

            “The last words my mother spoke were the ones she said to you,” he says, finally, and Shion blinks, leans back, tries to speak around the beats of his heart.

            “I’m sorry,” he says, unsure if Nezumi is angry about this fact.

            “Would you like to know what she said?” Nezumi asks, seeming to pay no attention to Shion’s apology.

            Shion does not know if this is a test. He has a feeling, however, that any answer he chooses will be the wrong one, and therefore settles on the truth.

            “Yes, I would,” he replies, gently, and Nezumi does not seem angry, does not seem anything, really.

            “She told you to take care of me – her son, she said – her son who felt lost. Do you know why my mother would have said something like that to a stranger like you?” Nezumi asks, and he is leaning forward now, looking intensely at Shion in the way that made Shion fall in love with him – this is why, the way Nezumi looks at him, as if he is something incredible to look at, fascinating to behold.

            Shion tries to breathe, cannot quite remember how, gives up on the effort entirely because Nezumi seems to be breathing deeply enough for the both of them, and his breath skates over Shion’s skin, he is leaning so close.

            “Do you feel lost?” Shion asks, because he cannot come up with an answer for Nezumi, he does not know why Nezumi’s mother said those words to him in a language she must have known he could not understand – he thinks maybe the words were meant for Nezumi to hear, but he does not know how to say this to Nezumi.

            He expects Nezumi to say no. No – He expects Nezumi to remain silent. He expects only his grey gaze in response, but instead, Nezumi looks away – instead, Nezumi replies, “Are you supposed to be able to change what I have felt for as long as I can remember? Do you have some kind of super power?” Nezumi asks, and then he is glancing back at Shion, who wishes he could easily say yes, wishes he could easily agree.

            “I don’t know. I don’t know, Nezumi, I don’t know if I can change anything for you. But you have changed everything for me. That’s what I do know.”

            Nezumi traces the cover of _King Lear_ with his forefinger. “Have you felt lost, Shion?”

            Shion thinks about it, admits a truth he only just realizes at that moment. “No. But I think, if I leave here without you, I will feel lost for the rest of my life.”

            Nezumi leans closer even though there is hardly any more space for him to lean. “Shion,” he says, quietly, and Shion manages an exhale.

            “Yeah?”

            “You know the things you say can be so stupid it’s infuriating,” Nezumi murmurs.

            “I didn’t know that,” Shion replies, attempting to inhale.

            “You make me wish I didn’t understand Japanese,” Nezumi says, and Shion has to smile at this.

            “That’s a little dramatic. Maybe you’ve read enough Shakespeare for now,” Shion replies, around his smile.

            “If I come to Japan, you’ll have to stop saying stupid things like that, you know,” Nezumi says, and Shion stares back, breath catching on his lips.

            “You’re considering?”

            Nezumi watches him carefully. “I can’t let you fail to complete my mother’s dying wish,” he says, finally, and Shion wants to hug him, but doesn’t, keeps his hands by his side, tries not to smile too widely.

            He is distracted from his frantic pulse when Nezumi speaks again, so close now their lips are nearly moving against each other.

            “I am leaving the rest of my family, though. I will need more of an incentive than your awful dancing skills,” he murmurs, and Shion nods, agrees completely, wants to ask Nezumi what sort of incentive he would like, but he is unable to speak, as Nezumi’s lips are pressed against his, opening against his, and then it is Nezumi’s teeth that are against his lips, biting down, not hard, but not altogether soft.

            Shion gasps, inhaling the breath from Nezumi’s mouth, and it is warm and wet, and the pain of his bites are sharp and quick, and Shion cannot help but feel that there is something incredible to be said for kisses from a man raised by wolves.

**

_six months later_

Nezumi stares out the window as Shion cooks, watching the rain hit the glass, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt absentmindedly.

            “You have to stop doing that,” Shion remarks, and Nezumi glances at him.

            “Doing what?”

            “Pulling on your shirts. You’re stretching them out.”

            “They’re choking me,” Nezumi protests, still not used to human clothing, though he does have a fondness for dresses, which are quite like the overlong shirt he used to wear in the wild.

            His particular distaste for pants, however, seems to fluster Shion a rather large amount, and though on some part this is amusing, he doesn’t much enjoy reading with the knowledge that he is being ogled at by the idiot he lives with.

            “No, they’re not. And dinner’s ready,” Shion says, so Nezumi steps away from the window, approaches the pot and peers in, continuously amazed with the variety of things people eat and the strange practice of “cooking.”

            On his first few weeks in Japan, he transitioned from raw meat to Shion’s cooked meals, and though Shion hasn’t yet gotten him to admit it, Nezumi must say he prefers the latter a great deal more, to his own surprise.

            “What is that?” he asks, leaning down to sniff the contents, but Shion pulls him back.

            “Don’t stick your face all the way in the pot, you’ll burn yourself. It’s stew. You don’t have to sniff everything, you know,” Shion says, and Nezumi glares at him.

            He does _not_ sniff everything. Just things that deserve to be sniffed. Such as this _stew_ , as Shion called it, which happens to smell delicious – not that Nezumi will be sharing this fact with him.

            Nezumi has long since mastered silverware, and they spend the meal arguing. Shion wants to practice multiplication, while Nezumi points out that there is absolutely nothing valuable in math, and really, nobody gives a damn if he can multiply three and seven.

            “It’s a basic skill, Nezumi.”

            “I don’t care.”

            Shion sighs and points a fork at him. “I thought you were trying to assimilate,” he says.

            “I have assimilated. I am an excellent human. Better than you are, even.”

            “What? No, you’re not,” Shion objects, and Nezumi grins at him.

            “I am,” he insists.

            “How?”

            Nezumi sighs theatrically, places down his fork and holds up his hand so he can count on his fingers. “I have a better vocabulary. I’m a better singer. I’m a better dancer. I’m better in bed – ”

            “Hold on, _no,_ you are not,” Shion argues, placing his own fork down on his plate.

            Nezumi raises an eyebrow. “Not what?”

            “Better in bed!” Shion exclaims.

            “Are you saying I’m not good in bed?” Nezumi asks, leaning forward, relishing in Shion’s blush.

            “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you’re not _better_ in bed.”

            “How would you know how good in bed you are?” Nezumi asks, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “How would _you_ know how good _you_ are?” Shion demands.

             Nezumi grins, satisfied that Shion has stepped right into his trap. “Because you are quite audible about it on a nightly basis,” he replies, and Shion’s blush spreads down his neck.

            “I should have left you in the wild,” he snaps, getting up from the table.

            “Are you mad, darling?” Nezumi asks, standing up and catching Shion by the wrist, pulling him back.

            “Why are you calling me darling?” Shion asks, looking bewildered.

            Nezumi smiles. “Isn’t that what humans call each other?”

            “No, it is not.”

            “What do they call each other, then?” Nezumi asks, and Shion turns in his arms, winds his arms around Nezumi’s waist.

            “Asshole. Idiot. Annoying,” Shion replies.

            “Mm, all the things I call you. See, I am the better human,” Nezumi says, and at this, Shion laughs, the sound familiar now, but no less fascinating.

            The laugh is cut off rather quickly, however – much too quickly for Nezumi’s taste, and he watches Shion in concern.

            “Hey, Nezumi,” Shion says, hesitantly, and Nezumi tilts his head.

            “Hey, Shion,” he replies, waiting.

            Shion glances up at him, smiles a small smile that quickly disappears. “Do you ever regret it? Leaving your pack?”

            Nezumi lifts his hand, runs his thumb over Shion’s lips. “There’s no point in missing the past. My pack is my family, but it is not my only family. I had a family before them. Now I have another family after them.”

            “Me?” Shion asks, eyes widening, and Nezumi sighs, is amazed at how stupid this guy can be.

            “Unfortunately, yes, you,” he agrees, and Shion’s smile is brilliant.

            “Will you dance with me?” he asks, suddenly, and Nezumi squints at him.

            “If I have to,” he says, and then they are dancing – Nezumi leading, of course, and this time he adds in a few spins, dips Shion a couple times, crashes them into the kitchen table and the stove, nearly topples over the pot of stew, but he is still clumsy on two feet sometimes, after all, and really such erratic behavior can only be expected from a wild man who still has not quite mastered the art of being civilized – and doesn’t much care to.

 

THE END


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